


Soft Focus

by tb_ll57



Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: Future Fic, M/M, post - endless waltz
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-10
Updated: 2014-06-10
Packaged: 2018-02-04 03:33:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1764225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tb_ll57/pseuds/tb_ll57
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"I do photography now,” Trowa said. “I’ve got a studio going in my apartment. I was wondering... if you would let me take some pictures of you.”</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. London By Daylight

He was almost, almost free for the day. It was half after eight and he’d only been supposed to stay til five, and he was looking forward to a dinner of microwaved mash and peas and then a face-forward flop onto his mattress. If anyone interrupted him before at least six o’clock, he would murder them. Or at least yell. Well, probably not even that, but he would resent it soundly.

He had his briefcase packed and his computer shut down and his keys in his hand when the sound he hated most on in all the universe stopped him from stepping away from his desk.

His phone rang.

For a long, blissful second, Quatre imagined walking away as if he hadn’t heard it. It was half eight. What were the odds that it was a global emergency? Not high. The odds that it was something that would require him to stay later were mighty higher, but they could only catch him if he answered.

It was a lovely dream, but it was short-lived. Resigning himself to regretting it, Quatre dropped his briefcase, sat down in his chair, and answered the ringing beast that occupied the corner of his desk. “Quatre Winner,” he said, flicking on visual. Then he gasped. “Trowa!”

 _“Hi.”_ It was Trowa, offering him a tiny smile from behind that familiar fall of dark brown hair. _“How are you?”_

They hadn’t seen each other face to face in almost three years, since the leaving party Quatre had thrown for him the week he’d resigned from the Preventers. Trowa had packed up his London flat and shuttled off for Space and his sister’s circus. Quatre had made an effort, at first, to keep in touch, but it had gotten harder and harder to remember where the circus was going to be that week, and asking Trowa to ring him had been the equivalent of tossing a penny into a fountain and wishing for world peace. Quatre couldn’t even remember when their last conversation had been.

“I’m good,” he managed at last. “I’m so glad you called. It’s totally unexpected.”

 _“I guess I’m not very good at that sort of thing,”_ Trowa said, deadpan but for the little twinkle of amusement in his eyes. _“Anyway, I wanted to tell you I’m in town.”_

“You’re in London?” Quatre demanded. “When did you get in? Where are you staying? You know you don’t need a hotel if you’re visiting, you can–“

_“I mean I moved back. Last month, actually.”_

Quatre blinked. “You moved back a month ago, and you’re just now calling me?”

Trowa hesitated. An out-of-focus blur bit into the corner of the screen, something Quatre belatedly realised was Trowa’s arm, adjusting something on the screen. _“I didn’t want you to feel obligated to help,”_ he said. _“Like offering me your house and your money and your firstborn son.”_

He had to laugh at that assessment of his character, largely true. “I can understand,” he said. “Well– where are you, then?”

 _“Isle of Dogs.”_ It was a poor area of the East End, but Quatre wisely refrained from commenting. Trowa could take care of himself, and, anyway, he’d known what he was moving into. Trowa seemed to know what he was thinking, because his little smile made a reappearance. _“Anyway,”_ he said. _“I have a favour to ask.”_

“Anything,” Quatre replied immediately.

Trowa scratched his hair, a foreign look of– well, Quatre didn’t quite know what it was, but it was apparently uncomfortable. _“I do photography now,”_ he said. _“I’ve got a studio going in my apartment. I was wondering... if you would let me take some pictures of you.”_

“Of me?” That stunned him. “Why me?”

 _“You’re the only person in town I really know.”_ He shrugged, a tiny movement of his shoulders. _“I’ve been offered a show in a gallery. I need some supplementary pieces. I thought of you.”_

“That’s great news,” Quatre told him truthfully. “Which gallery?”

_“Whitechapel.”_

“Trowa! Whitechapel Gallery! That’s amazing!” Whitechapel was famous for springboarding the careers of emerging artists, and if Trowa had a show there, then the photography was clearly not just a hobby to fill spare time. “Sure,” he agreed, “I can come to your studio. When would be good for you?”

 _“I figured it would be more when’s good for you,”_ Trowa responded. _“Do you ever leave the office?”_

He coloured. “I do make periodic attempts at escape.” He opened his briefcase and took out his diary. “I can come on Friday of this week. Unless that’s too early?”

_“It’s fine. I’ll email my address and the directions.”_

He crossed out the many meetings he’d had written in for Friday, and blocked Trowa for the entire afternoon. Then he smiled at the screen. “I missed you,” he said. “I’m really glad you’re back.”

 _“Thanks.”_ Trowa nodded at him. _“I’ll see you Friday.”_

“Good night, Trowa.”

 _“Night.”_ He paused. _“I missed you too.”_

Quatre signed off with a hand that trembled a little. He knew he was just imagining the emotion that had seemed to colour that last sentence, hearing what he wanted to hear– which was more than a long-distance friend returning a hackneyed, if heartfelt, sentiment. Trowa was back in London. And wanted to see him. And had actually rung him up. And had initiated what was probably the longest conversation they’d ever had.

He had until Friday to train himself out of blushing every time Trowa so much as glanced at him. The odds weren’t looking up.

 

**

 

The camera clicked as Trowa took another picture. “Can you unbutton the top one on your shirt?” he asked, stepping around the camera to examine the flash.

Quatre obeyed. “I didn’t realise this was so involved,” he said.

Trowa left the camera and came to him instead, fussing with the lay of Quatre’s hair over his forehead, using his knuckles to fan his sideburns a little. “You must have had your picture taken before.”

“Never like this, really. A photo shoot once with my sisters, but that was mostly about sitting behind a desk and looking professional.”

Trowa stepped back to look closely at his handiwork. He seemed satisfied, and returned to his camera. “You’re very photogenic.”

He laughed a little. “I’m not really sure what that means, to tell you the truth.”

“I think it means you always look good.” Trowa flashed him a tiny smile, then snapped a picture as Quatre turned pink. “You’re nervous?”

Incredibly. “A little,” he said.

“Don’t be.” Trowa adjusted the focus. “I can put on music if it would help.”

“Um– maybe. What do you listen to?”

“I have some classical.” Trowa left the camera again and padded on silent feet to the bookcase that held the stereo. He took a handful of discs from the shelf and flipped through them. “I have Dvorak’s ‘New World’ symphony.”

“All right.” He watched Trowa load the disc, and tried to relax his shoulders and spine as the music began to play. The opening strains of the adagio filled the room with tender, drawn-out notes sung by clarinet and oboe and bassoon. It was a moody, nostalgic tonality in the E-minor key, a low accompaniment to Quatre’s own anxious state. Trowa turned up the volume loud enough to drown out any further attempts at conversation, much less his rambling thoughts.

The clicking of the camera was inaudible now. Quatre sat on a stool placed in the centre of an open floor near the large window bay, with nothing particularly screaming “artists’ studio” other than the black blanket tacked to the wall behind him and the camera ten feet way. He let his eyes roam the rest of Trowa’s small flat, settling variously on the drape of the dark curtains, the framed prints on the walls, the slight sheen of the folds of the chenille throw that lay crumpled on the corner of the couch. The air flow from the vent in the ceiling was creating a slight breeze on the leaves of the potted tree, and the shadows shifted continuously there. The candles lit on the kitchenette table were flickering, and one was smoking too much; while he watched, the melted wax of the purple one spilled over the edge and began to form a pool on the tray. Trowa’s home smelled like incense, a strange combination of roses and balsam.

“Quatre.”

He jumped. Trowa was standing right in front of him, and, from the amused expression he wore, had been trying to get Quatre’s attention for some time. “I’m sorry,” he said belatedly, embarrassed. “What?”

“I asked if you’d be comfortable taking off your shirt.”

“My shirt?”

The green eyes were tranquil. “Or just opening it, if not. It’s too white.”

“Oh.” He fumbled for the top button before remembering he’d already undone it. “I didn’t realise, I didn’t know it would matter. I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right.” Trowa reached out to help him, and Quatre reflexively sucked in his gut when those hands were suddenly in his space. He tried not to think about how long Trowa’s fingers were as he unbuttoned from the bottom, and he dropped his own hands very quickly when they reached for the middle button at the same time. Trowa popped it gently, and tugged at the halves of fabric. He tapped Quatre on the knee, and he obediently propped his heel on one of the rungs of the stool so that Trowa could arrange the shirt tail on his thigh. His chest was a little chilled by its sudden exposure, and he was painfully aware that his nipples were hardening, and it was going to be visible if Trowa wanted him to remove the shirt. But Trowa seemed content for the moment, pulling back on the collar so that his collarbones were more visible, leaving most of his stomach bare. “You keep in shape,” he said.

Quatre felt himself go red again, a hot flush up his neck and ears. “Well– um– I try.”

Trowa returned to the camera, and moved the tripod a little closer and to the left. The light had changed, Quatre realised, as he glanced to the window. How long had he been oblivious? The sun had lowered considerably, splashing a deep alley of warmth across the terracotta tiles. The flash went off while he had his head turned, and he swivelled back immediately. “Sorry.”

Trowa looked up and caught his eyes. “It’s all right,” he repeated patiently. “It’s better to be natural. You’re fine, when you let yourself forget I’m looking at you.”

“It’s hard to forget,” Quatre admitted. “That you’re looking, I mean.” He cursed himself for a fool. “It would– it would help if you talked,” he added.

One eyebrow climbed, or maybe it was just a trick of the light. After a moment, Trowa nodded. “What do you want to talk about?”

“I don’t know.” Trowa chuckled, and Quatre managed to laugh at himself as well. But it was already helping him relax, enough that he wasn’t consumed by the need to hold his shirt closed. “Maybe you could tell me about some of the other people you did portraits of.”

Trowa snapped a picture. “I started with Catherine.”

“Your sister?” He had noticed that one of the women in the prints was familiar. He looked at it automatically, studying the flow of curls over one curved shoulder, the smile caught in a moment of unreserved laughter. She was backlit, and her profile seemed to fade into the light. The fine detail of her lips and thick eyelashes was beautiful.

“She bought me my first camera,” Trowa said. “I started with pictures of the animals mostly. The cats and the elephants. Then I did some of the trapeze acts, and I got some really good ones of Catherine during practice. She asked me to do more.” He paused. “You like that one?”

“You love her,” Quatre said. “She looks so happy.”

There was a pause at that, and he glanced back at Trowa, wondering what he’d said wrong. But Trowa was only looking thoughtful, not upset. A moment later, he nodded, and Quatre smiled at him.

Click.

That was when Quatre noticed the music had ended. He really had been in his own world.

“She sent it to a magazine,” Trowa continued. “She wasn’t going to tell me unless they accepted it, but they did. I even got paid. I used the money to get some more equipment.”

“What’s it feel like?” Quatre asked him curiously. “I mean– I’ve taken some pictures in my time, but I was mostly concerned with keeping my thumb out of the frame.”

Trowa’s teeth showed briefly in a smile. “It’s good,” he answered. “It’s like, getting to make what I see in my head, on paper so everyone else can see it. I like that part. Because it’s... it’s harder for me talk it out.”

“I think you do fine.”

Trowa shrugged, and his fingers worked on the camera for a moment. “I’m not like you. What you said about the picture– you just knew exactly what to say.”

“You have a great voice,” Quatre said. “On paper or aloud.”

Trowa looked up again, and their eyes caught. Stupid thing to say, Quatre thought. He dropped his chin to his chest and played with the corner of his shirt.

“That’s probably enough for today,” the other man said after a pause. “Can you come again in a few days? We can look at the prints together.”

He slid off the stool and began to button his shirt, his fingers tripping over each other in their haste. “That fast?”

“I may want to do more. Probably will, really.”

Quatre nodded. “I can come again. Tuesday? Or Wednesday if you need more time?”

“Tuesday is fine.” Trowa capped the lense, and picked up Quatre’s jacket from the chair. “I appreciate it.”

“Sure.” He succumbed to his complex of self-consciousness, and asked tentatively, “Am I doing okay?”

Their hands brushed as Trowa gave him his jacket. “Yes,” he said simply.

 

**

 

Tuesday afternoon found him back at Trowa’s flat, this time in a black shirt– he’d spent a ridiculous amount of time online researching what to wear, hoping to avoid errors this time. He’d also been careful to shave early in the morning.

Trowa answered his buzz at the door looking almost unchanged from Friday, except that he was barefoot and the cuffs of his denims were frayed and stained from being stepped on. He smiled his small smile at Quatre as he let him in, then gestured to the bag he was carrying. “What’s that?” he asked.

Quatre held it up, aware of heat creeping up his neck. “A change of clothes,” he said. “I read that it can be helpful.”

Trowa blinked twice in rapid succession. “You were reading up about it?”

“A little.” He cleared his throat. “So, how do the prints look?”

Trowa latched the door and led the way into the kitchen. The candles were burning on the bar counter this time, and the table was covered with low-gloss pictures. Quatre leant over them to look, trying to examine them objectively and not remember that they were all pictures of himself. “Do you always do black and white?” he asked.

“Usually.” Trowa sat in one of the chairs, nudging the corner of a print in line with the others in its row. “What do you think?” he asked.

There were five of him with his shirt buttoned, and nine or ten with it hanging open. Quatre had to admit he liked those better. And whatever Trowa had done to his hair looked nice, a little more natural. There was one of him smiling that made his heart beat faster– it was such a blatant mix of affection and hope. And there was one he didn’t remember Trowa taking, of him with his head bowed, and his hands in sharp relief against the white of his shirt, playing the fabric between forefinger and thumb. He sat turned just a little away from the camera, and his ear and jaw and neck made a series of clean lines. He touched the juncture just beneath his ear, wondering that his own body had a spot that looked like that.

“I like that one too,” Trowa said.

He licked his lips, and just managed to stop himself from chewing on the bottom one. “So, do you want to do more?”

In answer Trowa stood, the heels of his feet settling with little whispers on the hems of his jeans. “Let me look at the clothes you brought.” Quatre handed over his bag, and Trowa searched it, his lips pursed as he pulled out the three shirts Quatre had brought, all of them solid, dark colours, with enough variety of design to be interesting. But then he shook his head, and said, “Wait here, I think I have something.”

Quatre took a final glance at the picture of his jaw, and turned away deliberately. He unbuttoned his shirt, assuming Trowa meant him to change, and tried to ignore the butterflies making jitters of his gut.

Trowa returned from the bedroom a moment later with a black slip of fabric, which he tossed to Quatre. When he held it up, it turned out to be nothing more than a ribbed cotton muscle shirt, a little frayed in the collar and worn thin with use. In a flash of revelation Quatre knew that this was Trowa’s, and that he wore it often. And now he wanted Quatre to wear it.

Trowa was waiting. He said, “I can turn around if you want...”

Quatre swallowed to ease his dry throat. “No, I’m not– I’m fine.” He shrugged out of his shirt, and pulled Trowa’s over his head. As he’d feared, it clung like a second skin. He imagined sourly that Trowa could probably see his heart beating far too quickly, the shirt was so unconcealing.

But Trowa was nodding his approval. “Can you take off your belt?”

Why the hell not? Quatre did, and dropped it onto the bag with his shirt. When Trowa pointed to them, he toed off his shoes and socks as well, and finally seemed to pass muster. He followed Trowa back to the “studio.” There was no stool this time, and the blanket on the wall was gone, leaving just the rough bricks. “What do you want me to do?” he asked, trying not to notice that his voice wavered.

“Just stand,” Trowa replied unhelpfully. He moved Quatre to the middle of the space, then went to the stereo. This time the music was violin, arching eerily over zither and cello in a deep, solemn bass. It had a strong Asian feel, the vibrato limited to the most tender, quiet moments. It was lovely, and not at all what he’d expected. The three instruments wove about each other like waves, rising and falling.

Trowa stood behind the camera. “Just be who you are,” he urged softly.

Quatre nodded, though he didn’t have a clue what that meant. He tried to lose himself in the music again, but it was harder today; he was too aware of his bare arms and the feel of the cold tiles under his feet. He rested his hands awkwardly on his hips, his elbows jutting out behind him, but that didn’t feel right. He scratched the back of his neck and let his arm fall. He even looked at Catherine’s portrait again, but it didn’t speak any words of wisdom today.

He heard Trowa sigh, and looked back at his friend. “I’m sorry,” he said helplessly. “I just don’t know what to do.”

“What do you do when you’re alone?”

“I– I guess I read. Sometimes I go walking.”

That didn’t seem to meet the need. Trowa played idly with the camera, one hand loosely curled about the nearest leg of the tripod. Suddenly he glanced up. “Do you still play?” he asked.

“Play what?” Quatre said stupidly.

“The violin.”

Oh. “Not much,” he confessed. “I don’t really have the time to do it right.”

“Do you miss it?”

He drew a deep breath and let it out. “Yes,” he said. “I miss it a lot. It... it was good not to be me, when I played.”

“What do you mean?” Trowa asked quietly.

Quatre gestured to the stereo. “It wasn’t my music. It was someone else’s work. I had to try to play it well, to reach what they were feeling, to– to try to connect to it myself, but essentially it wasn’t me. When I was really working hard for it, when it was just right, I forgot about everything but just the music. Like I was just there to make it come alive.”

“Show me.”

He stopped. “What do you mean?”

“Show me,” Trowa repeated.

“I don’t have my violin.”

“Pretend.”

Pretend. Quatre drew another breath and let it out fast. He lifted his hands into position, trying to remember the feel of delicate, smooth wood in his palm, the weight against his shoulder, the curve under his chin warming quickly from the contact. He held the bow in his right hand, lightly between the forefinger and thumb, resting against the edge of his palm. Automatically he shifted his feet for the correct stance and straightened his spine. Trowa was nodding his encouragement.

“Play along,” he said.

He had almost, almost forgotten how foolish he felt. “I don’t know the music.”

“Improvise.”

His stomach was decidedly unhappy with him. Quatre licked dry lips, and set his imaginary bow to his imaginary strings. He focussed on the music, listening for the time signature, letting the beat settle into him. He closed his eyes, and he played.

At first it was difficult. But the low, warm tone of the cello rolled beneath him, swirled around his legs while the plucking zither made a counterpoint, bobbing about him. It was, he thought, a little like floating in the ocean in the darkness; he felt weightless, but calm, anchored by the rhythm. The notes of his violin were more fluid than in classical pieces, curving, lingering longer. He dipped and rose with the waves, his body twisted gently as he hung suspended. And the emotion of the piece was shifting, darkening, pulling harder at the violin, wrenching angry moans from the cello. When percussion joined them he accepted each beat as a physical impact, letting it rock him, buffet him. The music was growing agitated, taut with sorrow and loneliness. The cello was heartbreaking, the zither and the drum hammering relentlessly, and he cried out high and faltering, stabbing at the strings with his bow–

–and then it broke, and dwindled, and Quatre let it drain away.

He was standing in Trowa’s flat, and Trowa was standing ten feet from him, the camera in his hands now instead of on the tripod. He was clicking away, flipping the advance rapidly. Quatre felt oddly still, and empty. He watched Trowa photographing him, til suddenly Trowa stopped. Trowa lowered the camera, and came to him. He lifted a hand, then hesitated; and then he touched Quatre’s face with the back of his finger, and brushed away a something hot and wet.

It was as if his mind was suddenly awake. Quatre wiped his cheek, and discovered he’d been crying.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“You don’t always have to be sorry,” Trowa answered. He hesitated again, and Quatre stared at him, wondering, realising they were standing very close, that Trowa smelled like myrrh.

Trowa lowered his head, and kissed Quatre on the mouth.

 

**

 

He came back on Saturday to see the new prints. Trowa greeted him at the door again, dressed in what Quatre recognised as a Preventers dress shirt with the patches ripped off. Quatre followed him to the table, where the prints were spread out under a lamp that stretched by extender cable from the den.

They were amazing. Quatre had been unable to imagine what they would look like, but even if he had, they wouldn’t have looked like this. They were dark, some of them blurred, some of them bright contrasts of the black muscle shirt and his white skin and gleaming hair. In one the camera had captured the tilt of his head, the slight gap of his lips as if he were breathing hard, while his hand hovered at the edge of the frame cupped about the imaginary bow. In another he appeared full-body, his back bent in a sway, the mimic of playing the violin obvious, while in the one that seemed next in the sequence it was impossible to understand of the strange motion of his hands. And in the last, the one Trowa had taken standing just in front of him, there was only his face, sweat dampening the hair at his temples, his eyelashes clumped together with wet, and the streak of tears visible on his cheeks. Even in shades of grey, his eyes seemed to be begging for– something. It was oddly devastating to see such naked emotion on his own face.

Trowa touched his wrist. “They’re good,” he said.

He swallowed hard. “Yes,” he agreed. “They are.” He looked up. “Did you always have this in you?”

Trowa’s shoulders moved in something that wasn’t quite a shrug. “I wanted to ask you that,” he said softly.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. He picked up the picture carefully to avoid leaving smudges. “I... don’t think I knew I did.”

Trowa’s fingers were lingering on his skin. “Will you let me take more?”

He’d come prepared for Trowa to ask. “Yes,” he answered immediately.

Trowa stood him in front of the wall again, and then retreated to his camera to begin adjusting it. When he was ready, he looked up at Quatre. “Do you trust me?” he asked.

“Yes. Of course.”

He nodded. “Take off your shirt.”

His cheeks heated. “That’s three times you’ve asked me to strip,” he said.

That little grin tugged at Trowa’s mouth. “Isn’t the third time supposed to be the charm?”

“Fair enough.” But his hands still shook a little as he grasped the hem of his tee shirt and pulled. Static arced about his head as the cotton scraped against his hair. He dropped the shirt to the tile, aware that Trowa had taken at least two pictures while he’d done that. Part of him felt bold, but the rest was scared.

“Why are you so modest about your body?” Trowa asked, taking another capture.

“What do I have to show off?” he asked tartly. “I’m skinny and I’m so pale I practically glow.”

Trowa took another picture. “That’s not the reason,” he said.

“I’m scarred.”

“So am I.”

“I don’t– want to talk about it.”

Trowa looked up. “You don’t have to do this,” he said a moment later.

His heart was beating far too fast. It was a struggle to breathe evenly, but he made himself, deep and slow. “It’s all right.”

They looked at each other in silence as seconds turned into a minute, and Quatre began to dread Trowa saying something else, like go home. He could do this. He did want to do this. And he wanted to do it with Trowa.

“Take off your pants,” Trowa told him.

He undid the button of his trousers as Trowa’s dark head bent to the camera viewer again. As he drew down the zipper he wondered why Trowa hadn’t put on music this time. He hooked his thumbs in the waistband, and pushed down, taking his undershorts with the trousers. He kicked out of the left leg first and then the right, and when he stood nude he nudged the puddled fabric toward his shirt. He stood straight again, listening to the click of the camera, and waited for the next instruction.

Trowa’s fingers went still on the camera. He exhaled softly, and murmured, “I don’t see anything to be ashamed of.”

His eyes burned. Quatre had to break their gaze and stare at the floor while he willed himself to find control. “What should I do?” he asked.

“Quatre. Please.”

He swallowed down the tears, and managed to lift his head. “Why did you leave the Preventers? I didn’t really understand.”

Trowa considered his answer, idly focussing and refocussing the lense. “It wasn’t the right place for me,” he answered finally. “I don’t like... feeling like I never fit in.” He hunched one shoulder. “I’ve been fighting all my life,” he said. “I feel like that should be over now. I wanted to do something else.” He checked the flash. “Why didn’t you ever join in the first place?”

“My sisters asked me to come back to WEI. And it was what my father always wanted. I owed him to try.”

“Does it make you happy?”

“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “I don’t really have a lot to compare it with.”

“You should do what makes you happy.”

“I was happy you came back. I am happy you’re back.”

Trowa was frowning. And working on something, working to get it out. Quatre waited, standing still, his hands at his sides, forcing himself to untense every second. He watched Trowa’s long fingers curl around the camera case, gripping tightly.

“Why didn’t you ask me to stay?” he asked suddenly.

That hurt. It was a physical pain in his chest. “I never knew you wanted me to,” he said. “You said you wanted to leave. That you needed to leave. I thought you were telling the truth.”

“I was. But– I wanted you to ask, too.” Abruptly Trowa turned away, going into the kitchen and leaving Quatre standing helplessly behind him. But Trowa returned a moment later with a water bottle, striding past the camera and straight to Quatre. He twisted off the cap and poured water into his palm. Then he thrust his hand into Quatre’s hair, startling him into a gasp as cold liquid splashed down his neck. He did it again, and a third time, until his hair was dripping down his back. Trowa set the bottle aside, and ran his hands through Quatre’s hair, pushing it back from his forehead and slicking it down. And then he bent his head and kissed Quatre.

He was breathless when Trowa released him and turned back to the camera, and he heard several clicks before he registered what they meant. He reached up to swipe at chilly drips raising gooseflesh down his spine, and discovered he was shivering. He hugged his arms close to his chest, then had to wipe away water from his face. The camera was capturing all of it.

“Don’t retreat,” Trowa told him. “Don’t try to hide from me.”

“I’m not.”

“Yes, you are.” He raised his head, and Quatre was shocked to see anger in his face. “I fought a war with you,” he accused. “I know how brave you are. I’ve watched you look death in the face and keep fighting. Why is this so hard, Quatre?”

“You don’t know anything about me!” Quatre exclaimed. “You left for three years! And we barely knew each other before that. And in case you haven’t noticed, there isn’t exactly a battalion of Leos in here.”

“No, just one stranger with a camera,” Trowa retorted. He left the camera again, this time for the kitchen table. He grabbed the pictures and held them up. “This is who you are. This is what I see when I look at you.”

“I don’t–“

Trowa flung the prints at him. They scattered on the floor, the crisp photo paper clattering harshly on the tiles. “If that’s not real, then take them, and go.”

His eyes filled, and he was on his knees before he even thought to move, gathering the prints. “How can you do that?” he demanded, checking each print to be sure none were damaged. “These are beautiful, you can’t just toss them away.”

“They’re just photographs. They don’t mean anything.”

“They do!” he shouted. He was crying, and he wiped furiously at his face with his arm. “They’re beautiful. You made them, and they’re perfect, Trowa, you can’t just throw them away because I made you angry.”

"Tell me why not. I can be angry. I can be angry at you. Why can't you let yourself feel anything?"

"Because people die when I do."

Trowa's shoulders went tight, odd. He inhaled. "So what, Quatre."

Heat spilled out of his eyes. "Don't say that."

"So what. So they're dead. You knew they would be when you accepted your Gundam. So what."

"So it's not fair. It's not- I- it's not right. It matters. It means-"

"If it matters, then feel it. Now."

Demand or permission, he didn't know. But the word cracked between them, cracked him. He choked on a sob that ripped up through his chest, and then he was leaning over the prints and weeping convulsively in great wrenching gasps.

And he was only alone in it for a moment. Arms went around him and pulled him upright into a warm chest. “I’m not throwing you away,” Trowa whispered against his ear. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. It’s all right, Quatre.”

They were both rocking with the force of his shudders. “I’m sorry,” he groaned. “I’m so sorry. I’m sorry for everything I did.”

“It’s all right.” Trowa held him close, rubbing his back soothingly, pressing kisses to his temple and cheek. “It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have done that.” He tightened his hold. “Quatre."

It seemed like they knelt there on the floor together forever. It was a long time before Quatre could breathe again, could feel anything but the awful old grief that had been bottled inside him for so long, til Trowa had come back to London and stripped him of all his defences. And through all of it Trowa just held him, giving solace and support while it tore out of him. He felt muzzy, almost groggy, and his body ached and his head was sore, and his eyes and throat were swollen. His cheek was pressed to a soggy spot on Trowa’s shirt, but Trowa’s fingers were running through his wet hair, rubbing his scalp tenderly, and his arm about Quatre’s shoulders was solid and steady.

Trowa’s face was wet, too, when Quatre finally managed to pull away and ease back on cramping legs. Unthinking, Quatre touched it, and Trowa turned his head to kiss his palm.

“You must have needed to do that for a long time,” he said softly.

His eyes burned dully, but he didn’t have enough left in him to really cry again. “I trust you,” he said hoarsely.

Trowa kissed him gently on the forehead, and even more gently on his salty lips. “I’m glad,” he whispered.

He wiped his face. “What do we do now?”

Trowa smoothed his hair back a final time, and then he stood. “Stay right there,” he murmured. Quatre couldn’t have moved if he’d had to, but he nodded anyway, sniffling through a clogged nose and weathering the throbs of his overtaxed body. When Trowa returned a moment later, he sat behind Quatre, and drew him back until he was laying between Trowa’s spread legs with his back to Trowa’s chest.

Trowa’s bare chest. And bare legs. Quatre shivered as arms went around him again, an admiring hand tracing a path down his sternum. And the camera flash went off.

Trowa’s lips brushed his ear as he turned his face away. “Let it,” he said. “It’s all right, Quatre.”

“I look horrible,” he protested weakly.

Trowa kissed his neck. “You look amazing.” The camera flashed again. Quatre swallowed thickly, and allowed himself to touch the thigh cradling his. He let his palm flatten against it, suck up its warmth. Trowa’s lips moved into his hair as the camera went off again. Quatre dropped his head back to Trowa’s shoulder, catching the hand on his chest in his own. He reached back to cup Trowa’s neck. He opened his eyes, and looked straight at the camera as it flashed one more time.

 

**

 

Quatre accepted a glass of white wine from the server behind the bar with murmured thanks, and turned back to watch the crowd. The long gallery with its white walls and high, arched ceilings was full of solemn men and women in their evening finery. Some stood in groups chatting with each other, but most were wandering along the walls, examining the huge framed prints. It was a good turnout for an opening night, stuffing the gallery almost to capacity, and the man responsible for it stood at the opposite end of the hall from him, speaking with two older men Quatre thought might be critics.

A throat cleared beside him, and Quatre glanced up to see Lady Une and Sally Po, the Director and Co-Director of the Preventers. Both women looked stunning in lovely gowns, though Sally wore the more daring one, an almost-sheer black that flattered her dusky skin and elegant shoulders. Une was more conservative in a dark blue taffeta with a long, lace-edged sash demurely covering her muscled arms.

“I’m glad you could come,” Quatre said sincerely, accepted a kiss from Sally and taking Une’s hand briefly in his. “It meant a lot to him when you accepted the invitation.”

“I’m thrilled to be here,” Sally answered, and her eyes were bright as she looked around. “This is my first gala event,” she added, smoothing a hand down her flat stomach. “Did you know he did photography?”

Une had ordered champagne from the bar, and took her glass with a small sip. “Haven’t you seen the brochure?” she asked Sally. “I’d say Quatre knew.”

That made him flush a little; but then he laughed, and tossed his head. “Take a look around, ladies,” he said. “I hope you enjoy the show.” He excused himself with a nod, and began to work his way through the crowd toward Trowa.

When he finally joined the other man, Trowa was standing alone again. Quatre handed him his wine glass, and Trowa drank gratefully. “It’s going well,” Quatre said encouragingly.

“Yes,” Trowa agreed. He slipped his arm around Quatre’s hips, bringing him a step closer until they were leaning on each other. Quatre gazed up at the print they stood beneath. It was his favourite, one of the ones taken during their last session. The camera had caught them centred on the floor, Trowa behind him, looking away with his cheek pressed to Quatre’s bare shoulder. But he himself was looking directly at the viewer. He had obviously been weeping; his eyes were still darkly rimmed, and his lips were parted and puffy, his face sheened unevenly. But Trowa’s knees were drawn up either side of him, and his own were parted shamelessly. The portrait was– honest, he thought. It wasn’t hiding anything– there was nothing left to hide.

Trowa kissed him on the cheek. Quatre smiled at him. He didn't say love. He didn't have to. It was there for everyone to see.


	2. Portrait of a Prodigal Son

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _‘I never made it to the gallery,’ he confessed. ‘This was the first time I’ve seen the pictures. They are... I found them...’ He didn’t seem to know how to finish._

‘Iraia!’ one of the reporters shouted. ‘Who designed your dress?’

She turned toward the call, automatically twitching the drape of her yellow silk tunic into place. ‘Who do you think?’ she joked, smiling as several cameras turned toward to her to take advantage of the moment. ‘This is another Hidara Winner original.’

‘What about yours, Quatre?’ another man with a microphone extended asked.

Quatre came to a stop beside Iraia, smiling his most genial smile. ‘What kind of brother would I be if I didn’t promote my sister’s designs?’ he replied. His Damascan jubba was a polished cotton in a dark navy that complimented his eyes, and the stitching in his kufi matched Iraia’s dress. Together they cut a fine figure, and Quatre casually put his arm about his sister’s waist as they posed for the photographers, many of whom were old hands at covering the movements of the Winner family. At the end of the war, with communications between Earth and the Colonies normal again, Quatre had transferred his office to London as a sign of his public investment in the peace. Being young and social, he had attracted attention from the entertainment press, and he and his many sisters appeared often in clippings. They had opted to be friendly with the paparazzi, and generally it worked to their advantage.

‘Are you looking forward to tonight?’ one of the reporters asked them.

‘Absolutely,’ Quatre answered. Iraia drew away from him with a little pat, and left to catch up with Anna Chisca, a friend of hers from the World Health Council. ‘This is my favourite museum in the city,’ Quatre continued, waving her off. ‘I’m very excited about the new display.’

‘No special date tonight?’ Brett Johnson called out, catching his eye with a little smirk.

Quatre laughed at her. ‘Don’t let Iraia hear you say she’s not special. I’m thrilled to be here with my sister.’

‘Quatre, any thoughts on the up-coming Senate elections?’

‘I make it a policy to stay out of politics,’ he answered.

‘Do you know who you’re voting for?’

‘I haven’t made any decisions yet.’

‘Mr Winner! Three months ago you posed nude for a local artist. Do you think that’s a violation of your company’s family values?’

That question succeeded in silencing all the journalists, and Quatre himself. Then in a surge of movement they were suddenly surrounded by several more cameramen, and a number of microphones jutted toward him.

Quatre said, ‘Winner Enterprises has many values, chief amongst them fiscal responsibility to its shareholders. We, I, have never violated that.’ He stared back into the crowd behind the velvet rope that separated the celebrities from the newsmen, but he couldn’t determine who’d asked the question. Others were quick to take it up, though. Quatre’s involvement as the centrepiece of an unknown artist's first gallery opening had been so far under the radar that it had only received mention in a few art magazines with a small readership. That time was clearly over.

Brett Johnson pushed her way back to the front. ‘Did you really pose nude, Quatre?’

‘Why?’ he asked, summoning up a smile. ‘Asking me to do it again?’

That got the laugh he was looking for, and some of the rabid ‘big story’ scent began to dim.

Except for the man who’d asked the question in the first place. From somewhere behind the bright lights, he said, ‘Your company has always represented a conservative core of values. Are you declaring a break from that policy?’

‘I did a favour for an old friend,’ Quatre answered firmly. ‘A friend who is a very gifted artist.’

‘You haven’t answered my question,’ the invisible man called.

The mood was getting dark. Quatre knew better than to stand about arguing with a paparazzo, especially one he couldn’t see but who could obviously see him. It made the space between his shoulderblades itch for the first time in years; he had never liked vulnerability.

‘Quatre?’ Brett Johnson pressed.

‘Try to remember the charity auction when you write up your pieces tomorrow,’ he told the crowd, keeping his smile all but stitched in place. ‘If we make the thirty million mark I expect to see it headlined.’ He didn’t wait for a response, but turned on his heel and made his way—doing his best not to seem as if he were in a hurry—toward the flash of an indigo blue scarf that meant Iraia. Shouts followed him, but only a few, and Quatre tried to convince himself that his allies in the press would keep the focus off his private life.

He didn’t really believe himself.

 

**

 

Quatre threw the magazine back to the table with a noise of disgust. ‘I can’t believe that’s their centre-piece,’ he complained again. ‘That self-aggrandising bastard. Asking those questions at a charity event! And now everyone’s going to pick this up. This story will run twenty times before it dies.’

Trowa picked up the glossy, leaning a hip against his kitchen table as he read the article. ‘”Mr Winner’s brazen immodesty brings shame on all those who have supported WEI through the years, but especially on the greater Muslim community and on his own family. This writer believes that Kadar Winner would never have stood for such shocking immorality.”’ He looked up. ‘I don’t think he likes you much,’ he murmured. ‘What did you do to piss this guy off?’ He checked the name of the reporter who had jumped on Quatre at the museum opening. ‘Karl Covas.’

‘From all I can tell, he’s just a small-time reporter who found a good story all on his own.’ Quatre scowled at the stove. ‘The first thing you’re going to do is sue the magazine, that’s all I know.’

‘It’s not exactly libel,’ Trowa pointed out. ‘You did pose for me, your father was more conservative than you are, and anyway, does it really matter if he says some nasty things about you? He’s just a no-body.’

‘I didn’t say _I_ was suing the magazine, I said _you_ were suing the magazine,’ Quatre retorted. ‘To get royalties on this issue. They ran your photographs without your permission. And once the story gets picked up by the major outlets, this issue is going to sell thousands of extra copies.’

Trowa closed the magazine and dropped it back to the table. ‘I don’t know if I really care about that.’

‘It’s your work, Trowa! And it might make it difficult later if you ever try to sell your pieces. If people think you’ll sell to a—a gossip rag like Today’s Big News you could get a bad reputation. If you _don’t_ sue it will look worse than if you do. I’ll get you a lawyer. I have a whole firm of them.’

A smile twitched over his lips at that. He turned to the ‘fridge and drew out two bottles of beer, popping the caps and setting one before Quatre. ‘All right. I’ll take your advice about the royalties. But what are you going to do about it?’

‘Be passive-aggressively angry at work for a week,’ Quatre grumbled, and sighed. He picked up his beer and sipped from the bottle. ‘It will go away eventually. Talking about the story is only giving Covas a forum.’

Trowa thought that as well, and was glad that Quatre agreed. He took the other chair, and nudged Quatre’s foot under the table. ‘What do you want me to say if anyone calls to ask about it?’

Quatre’s head shot up. ‘They’ve already found you?’

He almost wished he hadn’t said anything. ‘I’ve had four calls about it. One last week, and three since the article came out.’

‘What did you tell them?’

‘Nothing. I hung up.’

Quatre stuck his thumb in his mouth, his teeth biting viciously at the nail. Trowa let him for a moment, but knocked his hand away when he didn’t show any signs of stopping.

Finally Quatre shrugged. ‘Say whatever you want to say,’ he decided. ‘If I didn’t want people to know about the photographs, I wouldn’t have done them in the first place.’ He managed a little smile. ‘At least they’re flattering.’

Trowa laughed softly at that, and took Quatre’s hand in his. ‘Very.’

 

**

 

Nadira threw down the newspapers one by one. ‘London Daily. Washington Post. L4 Report. Colonial Wire. People. The Guardian. The Times.’ The last paper hit the desk and knocked over a cup of pens, making Quatre wince. ‘And at last count, no less than thirteen mentions on public news broadcasts, all of them prime-time. Past the eight o'clock, they're even showing these lewd images.’

‘What do you want me to say?’ Quatre asked her bluntly. ‘I can’t wave my wand and make it vanish.’

‘Half the Earth-Sphere knows you let a man photograph you like this, Quatre! Just be thankful they couldn’t print the worst of the pictures! It’s bad enough hearing them described.’

‘When they get tired of talking about it, they’ll move on.’

‘Who will move on?’ his sister demanded. She shoved at the pile of papers on her desk, sending a few over the edge to Quatre’s feet. ‘Yes, the press will get tired of it, or something worse will happen. But what about our affiliates? What about our customers? Do you think they’ll just ignore this? You’re the face of WEI. The very naked face of WEI who sleeps with other men!’

He glared at her, frustrated with her obstinately tragic tone, until she backed down. When the silence was starting to feel too heavy, he said flatly, ‘My private life. My _private_ life, Nadira.’

She sighed, looking down at her hands. ‘It’s not just _your_ life, little brother. What you do reflects on the rest of us as well. What about your nieces and nephews? What about us? Everything you do reflects on us.’

‘What I do in my private time has no impact on our family!’

As soon as it left his lips, he knew how wrong it was.

They stared at each other until he couldn’t stand it anymore. He transferred his eyes to the window, trying not to let the trembly feeling in his chest spread, or the sting behind his eyes become anything more. Nadira straightened the papers in silence, and collected her pens; and then she sat in her chair, the leather creaking with her weight.

At last, he heard her swallow. ‘I think we should speak with our legal team. At the very least, we need to start counteracting the story. There’s no point in denying it, but we should try to get the photographs suppressed.’

‘I won’t do that to Trowa.’

‘He would do it if you asked him to.’

‘Which is why I won’t ask.’ He forced himself to look at her. ‘Whether or not you believe I deserve to be happy, I won’t do anything to hurt him.’

‘I am so tired of the way you deliberately misunderstand me!’ she exclaimed, her temper getting the better of her. Her hands clenched into fists on her desktop. ‘You’re not a little boy anymore, Quatre. You don’t get to do whatever you want. You have bigger things to think of!’

‘Bigger things are all I’ve ever thought of,’ he said. ‘And I’m tired of being treated like a genetically engineered puppet.’ He pushed to his feet. ‘If the lawyers come up with anything I’ll take it under advisement. But that’s all I’m promising.’

He was almost at the door when he her mutter, ‘Father would have understood.’

He left without answering. While he rode the elevator down to the garage, the echoes of long-gone explosions and screams rang in his ears.

 

**

 

Trowa carefully cleaned the lense of the camera with a special wipe, his brows meeting in a little frown line between his eyes as he concentrated. ‘You seem tired tonight,’ he said.

Quatre depressed two keys of the flute he held, testing the tension of the springs. ‘Been kind of a long week,’ he said.

Trowa finished cleaning up the evidence of a day’s work of shooting, finishing by untacking the black blanket from the wall and tossing it onto the couch. ‘Can I ask you a– ‘

‘Question?’ Quatre supplied.

Trowa seemed oddly uncomfortable. He scratched the back of his skull, abruptly abandoning his studio for the kitchen and pulling a packet of ready-made risotto from the pantry. ‘I should have asked a long time ago,’ he said. ‘I just assumed.’

Quatre carefully put the flute down on the shelf beside Trowa’s stereo, and followed him into the kitchenette to perch on the edge of the table. ‘Sounds serious.’

‘Maybe. I don’t know.’ Trowa turned on one of the gas burners and lit it with a match, then placed a pot over it.

‘You can ask me anything.’

Trowa dropped a fat spoonful of butter into the pan, and followed it a minute later with the rice. Quatre watched him cook, knowing it was sometimes hard for Trowa to put his thoughts into words, and content to let him get there in his own time. They sat in mutual quiet for nearly five minutes as Trowa sauteed the rice.

Finally Trowa glanced at him, and said, ‘Are you Muslim?’

It wasn’t at all what he’d been expecting. He kept his instinctive laugh down to a smile, though. ‘I guess there’s not an easy answer to that,’ he said. ‘I don’t know if I actually believe in a god. I don’t go to mosque.’

‘Sometimes you dress like you are.’

‘That’s cultural, really. My family were Berbers before we went to L4. I don’t know; some of my sisters wear the full hijab. And my uncle Salih is very traditional. He took his family back to Algeria.’

‘But you don’t really consider yourself Muslim.’

He took an onion from the bowl on the table, and hopped to his feet to take down the cutting board and get a knife from the drawer. As he cut the ends from the onion and began to shuck the dry outer layers, he thought about how best to answer that. ‘I suppose I’m _fasiq._ I profess, but I don’t practise. I don’t know. My father was... he was the same way. He and Salih used to argue about it. Horrible arguments. I used to hate when he visited us. I’d hide in my room so I wouldn’t have to hear them yelling at each other. He said Father was a hypocrite. He only pretended to be Muslim because some of the companies we worked with were Muslim.’

Trowa turned on his electric kettle to boil water. ‘Is that what you do?’

‘I don’t know.’ He pushed a handful of chopped onion toward the other man. ‘I’d say it’s stupid, but it really does matter to a lot of people, whether or not I really believe.’

Trowa seemed to be working through something. He was frowning again, staring to the left of the pot as if he didn’t see it. He said, ‘I was thinking...’

He brushed Trowa’s hand with his. ‘You’re going to burn the rice if you keep that up.’

He got a small smile for that, and Trowa dutifully added the boiling water to the pot. ‘I asked the gallery to take the pictures down,’ he said.

Quatre blinked. ‘What– why?’ Suddenly distressed, he made Trowa face him. ‘Why did you do that? Trowa, that was your first showing! They’re special–‘

‘What happened to make the photographs is what’s special,’ Trowa corrected him. ‘And taking them down doesn’t change that.’ He forestalled Quatre’s protest by kissing him. ‘If the risotto burns now, it’ll be your fault,’ he added, turning deliberately back to the pot.

‘Trowa.’

‘Let me do this for you,’ Trowa said. ‘Okay?’

Quatre swallowed. ‘Okay.’

 

**

 

Iraia turned the letter over to read the back. ‘We’re sure?’ she asked reluctantly.

‘As much as we can be without handing it over to the police.’ Nadira scrubbed her hands again, as if to wash away the stain left by the letter. ‘Which I’m incredibly tempted to do.’

‘We can’t,’ Iraia retorted, sitting heavily in the chair opposite her older sister. ‘Quatre’s role in the war isn’t public. We all agreed to keep it that way.’

‘The police wouldn’t–‘

‘It only takes one incautious comment. Given how many people know already, it’s a miracle that’s it never shown up in the news.’

Nadir sighed, and gazed blindly out the window. ‘We could increase his security. And he could stop making it easy by trotting off alone to the Isle of Dogs to see his– lover.’

‘Are you suggesting that Trowa move in with Quatre?’ Iraia asked, unable to contain her mocking tone. She had never got on well with Nadira, though together they were the eldest of the many Winner sisters, and as such, had been primary executors of their father’s will when he’d died more than nine years earlier. Nadira had stayed close to WEI, though Iraia had been glad to go back to her medical practice when Quatre came of age and took over the company legally. Sometimes, she wished she’d stayed involved, to give Quatre more of an ally; Nadira had never wasted much love on their only brother, but resentment she had in plenty.

Nadira glared at her. ‘I will never understand how you can support that relationship.’

‘Grow up,’ Iraia told her. ‘You’re too old and too smart to be a bigot. What two men do together is their own business. You certainly didn’t give a damn when Father trotted his mistresses in and out of the house–‘

‘Don’t misjudge me,’ Nadira retorted coldly. ‘It might make me happier if Quatre was having an affair with a woman, but that’s not what bothers me about Trowa Barton. What bothers me is that he’s some ex-circus clown poaching off our brother while he diddles around as a ‘starving artist.’ And Quatre’s naive enough to support him forever, we both know that.’

Iraia kept calm with an effort. ‘First of all, it’s Quatre’s money. If it makes him happy to spend it on Trowa, it’s still not our business. Second of all, Trowa’s not like that, which you would know if you bothered to meet him. Third of all, Trowa has nothing to do with the main problem here, which is a credible threat against our brother.’

Nadira touched the letter uneasily. ‘There have been threats before.’

‘Never from anyone who knows what he did.’ Iraia put her elbows on the desk and dropped her chin to her crossed arms. ‘If they do expose him... he’ll be in danger for the rest of his life.’

‘We need to tell someone, Iraia.’

As hard as she thought about it, Iraia couldn’t think of a way around it. ‘All right,’ she surrendered heavily. ‘But who?’

 

**

 

Iraia accepted a wine glass from the waiter, and waved him away. ‘Thank you for agreeing to do this,’ she said again. ‘We really didn’t know where else to turn.’

‘I understand it’s not entirely under your jurisdiction,’ Nadira added, sipping from her water glass.

Chang Wufei waved away their courtesies. ‘We do have the authority to act in the event of any threat to the Gundam pilots,’ he said. ‘And even if we didn’t, I would have done it anyway. I flatter myself that Quatre is a friend. He would do the same for me.’

Iraia smiled warmly at the man. ‘Have you been able to find anything out?’

Chang sliced a thick cut of his steak and ate it one-handed while he removed a file from his briefcase with the other. He flipped it open on the table between him and the two women, and pointed to the picture clipped to the inside page. ‘Karl Covas is ex-White Fang,’ he explained. ‘We keep our eyes on them. There’s no sign of stalking previous to Quatre’s appearance at the gallery opening. This looks like a crime of opportunity.’

‘How did he know who Quatre is?’ Nadira asked intently.

‘He fought at the Libra in 195. He overheard more than he was meant to, in the aftermath, and it appears he has a long memory. He recognised me, as well, when I picked him up for questioning.’

‘This is all above-board, yes?’ Iraia cautioned. ‘We didn’t mean for you to put yourself in trouble.’

‘All very legal,’ Chang assured her. He closed the folder, and paused long enough to eat another bite of his steak. ‘From where I’m sitting it doesn’t look like Covas is interested in harming Quatre, but he does have an agenda. He was hoping to stir up a conservative backlash against Quatre in particular, and WEI only by association. White Fang are inactive now, but they still feel a lot of anger with the pilots for refusing to join their cause. Usually they concentrate on Duo, since he’s the only one who still lives in the colonies.’

Iraia picked at her salad. ‘That’s so sad,’ she murmured. ‘You all gave so much.’ She looked up at Chang. ‘Why can’t they just leave you alone?’ she demanded, suddenly furious.

Chang seemed surprised by the strength of her emotion. ‘I’m sorry,’ he apologised tentatively. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you.’

Nadira surprised them both further by placing her hand over Chang’s. ‘I think what my sister is saying is ‘thank you.’ For everything, not just what you’ve done this week. We both thank you.’

Chang blinked rapidly at that, his face slowly turning red. He extricated his hand as soon as he could without giving offence, and drank deeply from his tea. When he had his colour under control again, he said gruffly, ‘I don’t think you’ll be bothered by Covas any more. He knows the Preventers are watching him now, and that’s usually enough to make a man think twice.’ He seemed to remember something, and opened his file again. ‘Also, I got back the prints from Trowa’s gallery that Covas made. Since they’re illegal, he would have been expected to turn them over anyway. I thought you might pass them along to him and Quatre for me, with my compliments.’ He held out a small stack of photographs to Nadira. ‘I never made it to the gallery,’ he confessed. ‘This was the first time I’ve seen the pictures. They are... I found them...’ He didn’t seem to know how to finish.

Nadira took the prints almost reluctantly, looking as if she wanted nothing more than to burn them. She shuffled through them quickly, though Iraia noticed when she got back to the beginning of the stack, she went through nearly half again before placing them face-down in her lap.

Chang stared down at his steak, cutting pieces into ever-smaller halves. ‘I found them very expressive,’ he finished at last. ‘Trowa is very gifted, and I think that Quatre is– very brave. I admire both of them.’

Iraia hid her smile behind her wine.

 

**

 

Nadira pressed the door buzzer, and stepped back, smoothing down her hair. A moment later, the crackling intercom fuzzed into life. _‘Hello?’_ a male voice asked.

Nadira cleared her throat, and leant forward to speak into the buzzer. ‘Yes, I’m looking for Trowa Barton.’

_‘I’m Barton. Who is this?’_

She had to clear her throat again. ‘Nadira Winner. I’m Quatre’s older sister.’

There was a long pause after that. Then, _‘I’m coming down,’_ and the intercom turned off. Nadira rocked back on her heels, clutching her purse uneasily to her stomach. It was only a minute before Barton made it to ground floor, but it felt like an eternity. Then the door was being wrenched open, startling her, and a young man stood in the doorway.

She knew what he looked like from the pictures and from the news. But there was something softer about him in person, less remote. He was ruffled, his untucked shirt and uncombed hair making her hands itch. There was a lot of uncertainty in his posture, and his face was younger than she’d thought it would be, hesitant in a way that reminded her of Quatre.

She put out her hand. ‘Nadira Winner,’ she repeated. ‘We haven’t met yet.’

Barton took her hand awkwardly, shaking it firmly but releasing her quickly. ‘I’m Trowa. Um– please come in.’ He held the door while she passed him. The foyer was what one could expect from the state of the building; mould darkened the corners of the ceiling and cracks ran the walls, but the carpet and furniture were new, and there were fresh flowers beneath the windows and at the mailroom door. He led her to the lift, and they stood in silence as he sent them up to the seventh storey. When they exited the lift to his flat, Nadira tried to maintain her neutral expression, hard as it was when she was showed into the small space with its minimal furnishings.

‘Do you want something to drink?’ Barton asked her in a mumble.

‘No, thank you.’ She drew a deep breath, and took the photographs from her purse. She held them out to the young man. ‘I came to return these.’

He took them with a glance. ‘Where...’

‘Karl Covas had them. The man who started this mess.’

‘Oh.’ Barton thumbed through the pictures. ‘Thanks.’

The couch looked safe enough. Nadira sat carefully on it, her purse in her lap. She stared at the camera on the tripod nearby, and realised this must have been where Quatre had taken the pictures. ‘I want to ask you something,’ she said, choosing not to look at him.

She heard him shift behind her. ‘Okay.’

‘Those pictures. Is that... is that how Quatre is with you?’

Silence answered that. Finally, he said, ‘I don’t understand what you mean.’

She forced herself to turn her head. ‘I’ve never seen him look so– sad,’ she admitted painfully. ‘He was always– I didn’t know him very well when he was younger, but– even at our father’s funeral, he just looked... I’ve never seen him look the way he looks in your pictures of him.’

Barton ventured closer, sitting cautiously on the edge of the coffee table farthest from Nadira. ‘Maybe he doesn’t know how to show you what he really feels like.’

‘And that’s it?’ she asked again, gesturing to the photographs. Barton gazed down at them, his long fingers tracing the edges.

‘Yes,’ he said eventually. ‘Sometimes. But I knew him for years before he ever let me see it. Even then, I had to... I yelled at him. I was going to tell him to leave. I didn’t think he even knew he felt like this inside. He was... different during the war. Before he learnt to hide everything.’

‘Is it because of the war?’ she pressed, seizing on that. ‘Is this how you feel about it?’

Barton slowly put the pictures down on the table beside him, almost as if he didn’t want to stop touching them. ‘Sometimes...’

Nadira made a noise of exasperation. ‘It should be a simple question.’

Barton’s eyes– a true green, not a light hazel– speared her. ‘I think it’s how all of us feel,’ he said. ‘Except we’re supposed to grow up and get better and act ‘normal.’ And Quatre thinks he owes all of you, because he killed his father.’

That stunned her. ‘He didn’t,’ she protested. ‘It wasn’t his fault, the Council pushed Father into disconnecting the satellite– OZ fired on him.’

‘I know that.’ Barton shrugged. ‘But he thinks it’s his fault. And I think you make him feel that way.’

‘Me?’ she repeated weakly.

‘All of you. Even Iraia, sometimes.’ He was frowning. He added, ‘You don’t have to like me or approve of me. But you have to stop making his entire life about everything that he owes you.’

‘How dare you?’ Nadira said indignantly. ‘That’s a terrible assumption.’

‘Don’t you ever get tired of hearing him say ‘I’m sorry’?’ he demanded. ‘He hasn’t been anything but sorry since he was fifteen years old.’ He stood abruptly. ‘Thanks for bringing the pictures. I can show you out, if you want.’

 

**

 

Iraia turned to look at her backside in the mirror. ‘Do you really think this is my colour?’ she asked dubiously.

Hidara held her still by the knees long enough to finish pinning the hem. ‘Absolutely,’ she added. ‘Plum is the in-colour, anyway.’

‘I really like it,’ Quatre offered, looking at her closely. ‘Although maybe the sleeves could come up a bit? To here?’ He touched her arm halfway between wrist and elbow. Hidara was already nodding vigorous consent and grabbing a white pencil to make marks on the fabric. ‘Maybe I should go into fashion,’ Quatre joked.

The bell on the door clanged noisily as it opened. ‘I’m sorry I’m late,’ the newcomer called in a rush. She tripped over a bolt of fabric, then emerged into the dressing room brushing errant tassels off her jacket.

‘Hello, Nadira,’ Hidara said absently, concentrating on drawing a dotted line about Iraia’s forearm. ‘Yours is the gold ombre pleated tafetta there.’

Nadira left her purse and coat on a bench strewn with scraps, and ventured closer to her siblings standing before the mirror. ‘You look lovely, Iraia,’ she said, reaching out to tweak the lay of fabric over her sister’s shoulder. ‘I think you’ll start a trend with this one, Hidara.’

Quatre didn’t quite meet Nadira’s eyes as he agreed. ‘You look like an old-fashioned movie star in this. Maybe Hidara can make you some red carpet scrubs.’

Hidara actually looked intrigued for a moment. ‘They could certainly use some improvement,’ she muttered, then began holding choices of trim to the hemline of the dress and scowling down at them.

Nadira took down the formal suit Hidara was working on for her, playing the light tafetta over her fingers. ‘Quatre,’ she said.

Her brother looked up. ‘Yes?’

‘I was wondering... Well, as you know, Jean and I are coming up on our tenth anniversary, and we haven’t had new pictures of the children since the last growth spurt. I know it’s not quite what T-trowa does, but maybe I could convince him to do a new portrait for us? Something informal, something... us.’

The play of emotions over his face was rapid and hard to follow. Hidara and Iraia were watching closely, too, almost unbreathing.

‘I can ask him,’ Quatre said finally. ‘I think he has the time right now.’ He worried at his lower lip for a moment. ‘You would really want him to do it?’

She nodded. ‘I had the chance to really look at the pictures from the gallery. I went there,’ she confessed in a rush. ‘I was disappointed... to see that some of the show had been taken down, but I very much liked what I saw.’

A tentative smile started on his mouth and lit his eyes. It was a startlingly genuine expression. ‘Really? Well, I’ll– I’ll ask him. Thank you.’

Nadira smiled back, relieved. ‘Thank you, Quatre.’ She laughed a little as she held up the suit, looking past the others into the mirror. ‘I’ll just go try this on,’ she said.

Hidara and Iraia exchanged a meaningful glance. ‘We’re certainly one handsome family,’ Iraia announced contentedly.

'Mm,' Hidara agreed.


End file.
